She Cries at Motorcades
by CaffeineChic
Summary: Amy asks no more about age and babies and linear things in contorted lives. Time is wound around and through her daughter. She fears it coils too tight, even for her unfaltering girl.


A/N: This has taken about 2 months for me to finish so I'm posting now before either it destroys me or I destroy it!

Comments and feedback always welcome and appreciated.

In theory this is part 1 of 3.

Xposted at AO3

* * *

Amy has no idea how old her daughter is – it seems rude to ask (it doesn't stop her).

River hedges (she is old, and young, and time lord and human), Amy can't pry a number out of her – what would it mean, anyway? She guesses at 45 in human years, 200 in time traveling ones, and the blink of an eye in time lord measurements. Her daughter will always be older than she is, and Amy will always be older than conventional counting can chronicle. It doesn't matter, not really, not now with so much time passed and passing and yet to come.

But when Amy prods about grandchildren and _when is that happening?_ and _what's one more timehead when the first one turned out so well?_, her daughter doesn't hedge or sidestep, she closes up tight and asserts too sharply that they're not for her, or them; that she doesn't want. She doesn't want.

She does not want.

(What she cannot have.)

"The TARDIS said no, that it's not…" she trails off and stops and buries it deep. Even a mother's eyes must strain to see what she knows is there.

Amy asks no more about age and babies and linear things in contorted lives. Time is wound around and through her daughter. She fears it coils too tight, even for her unfaltering girl.

(Amy is the girl who waited.

Amy is a secret keeper.)

* * *

They're having a barbeque. The back garden and house are full of friends and their children and sunshine and laughter. They'd planned this a week ago, called and texted and emailed the invites. (And left a message that the Doctor couldn't miss – they'd underlined the date, and circled the bit about bringing their daughter.)

It was going great, though Amy's heart twisted around the lie of cousin when she introduced River. And she wasn't blind. The Doctor (when Rory had made it clear, that no, he didn't need help with the grill because he'd like to cook burgers not burn the garden down) had made himself head of the children and was running around the garden like an 8-year-old. River was steadfastly sticking to the adults avoiding anyone under 4 feet tall. (Avoiding, dodging, smiling like the action cuts into her skin whenever they came hurtling in her direction, evading them always.)

The Doctor is all circles and light and unknowing giddiness as he grins in River's direction, a child hanging from every limb. Her daughter is angles, heavy with things (she thinks) she knows. Burying and hiding. Weaving pretty lies across her frame. (She never tells him when it hurts. She can't run if she's weighed down with wounds. She doesn't hurt. She lies.)

This woman – this grown woman whom she bore, and lost, was found by and grew with – is still her daughter, is still the baby girl she held in her arms whispering bravery into her delicate skin. She's also the woman with her hearts breaking across her face when she thinks that no one is looking. (Amy sees the flutter of River's hand to her flat stomach, sees her fingers tense and fall away, sees her daughter steady herself, breathe deep, force the corners of her mouth into a semblance of a smile.) Her daughter is very good – at running, at hiding, at protecting those she loves.

But Amy catches just the right glimpse, the right turn, the right light. She sees the ache laid bare.

The absence. The longing.

Amy knows things, because Amy aches too.

(When River stays and Rory works and horrors creep inside her daughter's sleeping mind, scaring screams from her throat and thrashes from her limbs, Amy climbs into bed with her and turns on an extra light; she kisses her daughter's furrowed brow and holds her clammy hands in hers and stands guard against the monsters they've already lost to.)

Amy will never teach her how to tie her shoes, or how to read, or magic away her little girl tears. There are lots of things Amy will never do for her daughter. But this... this she can do.

She catches River's eye and nods towards the kitchen, under a guise of glasses and wine and _help your old mum_.

(Amy is the girl who waited.

Amy is a secret keeper.

Amy chooses –

to only be one of those things

and then to be neither.

She waits no more, and frees a truth.)

"He looks good with a baby. Well, when he doesn't look like he's about to drop her."

River frowns in confusion – the Doctor is currently holding court with a swarm of children of varying ages – none of them young enough to be classified as a baby.

Amy watches from the corner of her eye, her daughter's mind is fast so fast – it barely needs a spark to be set ablaze. She watches as a puzzle solves, as pieces start to fall carefully into place.

River's voice is low – so low, so needing to believe her. "The TARDIS said no." (She did not, she never says no to River. She said not yet. River asked the wrong question, heard the wrong answer.)

"You have a girl," (You will. I've seen her.) Amy is brazen in her statement, her eyes locked on River, daring time to interfere, to tear this moment apart.

Time stands still and down and grants its grace.

"Mother," River whispers desperately to her, all hope and _please and let it be true_. "Spoilers." Her voice rippling over the word, her eyes awash with want, turning away.

Amy places a hand on her back, between the blades of her shoulders, and roots her daughter in the now, pulls River from a future she thought was already set.

"Those are his rules. Not mine." (You're mine. Let me give this to you.) Her voice is quiet and loving and absolute. "You spent all that time making sure your life happened, let _me_ make sure too." (She whispers the secret of a life she's seen written, hushed words of splendour yet to come – she gives her daughter just enough to lay the path.)

"You can't tell me these things."

"I'm your mother, I'll tell you what I like."

River unravels beneath her hand and words, the tears flowing down her face, a tiny sob absconding from her throat.

(Amy can count on one hand the number of times she has seen River cry, she has never _heard_ her, not since she was a baby in her arms. Her courageous daughter with her fears and pain so deeply buried – happiness is her undoing. Amy wraps her up tightly, inhales. Her skin is still delicate.)

"River, need your help here – the Doctor wants a go of the grill…. Why's she crying? What's he done? Where's my sword?" Rory's words break over them as he advances, his arms instinctively raising to embrace them both.

Amy rolls her eyes and loosens her grip just enough to let River wipe at her face. "It's okay, Rory. She's fine. She's good."

River laughs at her own words handed back to her, but doesn't pull away. Amy hugs tighter, her daughter sandwiched between herself and Rory – ages and faces and none of it matters when she can still do this.

Rory doesn't question – he already knows what she's done. "You told her."

"Yep," she pops the _p_ sound. She is unrepentant.

He says nothing, he nods his head at her once in agreement, in collusion. He's not blind either. Amy feels him hold tighter.

"River come see! I soniced the grill," the Doctor's voice precedes his being, stopping short at the sight before him. "Hugging! Are we all hugging River now?"

Amy can hear the worry in his voice as he tries to hide it away, play it off as something else (how much of her daughter's life is masquerade?).

She twists to hide River, to let her compose herself; Rory completes the wall at her side.

"Yes, we're all hugging, that's what we do when you're not around." Amy rolls her eyes, surreptitiously checking that her daughter is back in one piece before stepping aside "Your turn now, you numbty."

The Doctor makes towards them and Amy pushes River gently in his direction, watches as he enfolds her carefully. He's not as adept as River at concealing his emotions when they're fretting and fussing and focused on his wife. Whatever question that tries to escape his mouth is captured as River kisses him.

"No, still not okay with this. It's still weird."

Amy puts her hand across Rory's eyes and laughs, her hip bumping his. "Leave them be."

She wonders for a fleeting second if her daughter's hearts are safe in the Doctor's hands. (They break apart but barely. Amy watches as he grasps a golden curl and tugs it gently. His eyes raking across River's face, questioning without a word. She sees her daughter sway into him more and smile away the tension in his frame. He grins back.) A transient moment. It is gone. She doesn't worry.

"Wait, did he say he soniced the grill?!" Rory is gone from her side and back to the garden, calling River's name behind him in earnest. Her daughter untangles from the Doctor, the sonic already in her possession, leading them both out. Her smile light and blinding.

Her daughter has never been weak, her brave brave girl standing stronger than ever with a gifted secret squirreled away – she is glowing from the inside out. River turns suddenly and Amy has her arms full of her, the force knocking her back a step, before she is on her own again. Her daughter berating the Doctor affectionately – her hand gently gently ever so gently across the top of the head of an airplaning boy as he passes, her hand in her husband's.

Amy remembers, suddenly, clearly, standing on a pyramid consenting and giving and not thinking twice about either. She trusts the Doctor with her life, her daughter's too.

She trusts him with River's living. (She trusts she trusts she trusts him with all of her daughter's days unfolding at her feet, an endless stretch of time in which to thrive.)

He'll keep her safe.

He'll always bring her baby home.

She follows her family into the garden.


End file.
